


Abyssus Supreme

by Kemmasandi



Series: Elders Behaving Badly [1]
Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Mechpreg, Oral, Other, Past Underage, Spark Sex, Sticky Sex, noncon/rape, spousal rape, weird alien biology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-16
Updated: 2013-07-16
Packaged: 2017-12-20 09:08:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/885498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kemmasandi/pseuds/Kemmasandi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rhodian Prime pays the price of disobedience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Abyssus Supreme

**Author's Note:**

> **Title:** Abyssus Supreme  
>  **Rating:** NC-17  
>  **Universe:** TF:Prime [ish: a very long time ago, in a galaxy far away]  
>  **Characters/Pairings:** OCs - Abyssus, Rhodian Prime, mention of Andromeda the Warrior  
>  **Warnings:** HARD NONCON - spousal rape, abusive relationship, historical underage. Smut - sparksex, sticky [a Kem-specific version of it anyway], mention of past mechpreg.
> 
> Pleasepleasepleeeaaaase heed the warnings! Abyssus is NOT a nice person by any means.
> 
> Shortly before that book about the Thirteen was published, Kem started making up her own version of an early Cybertronian mythos/historical period of society. When said book was published, there was much hemming and hawing and pulling of hair before I decided that it was pretty cool, but I have a long and proud history of Making Shit Up and that I didn't particularly care whether or not it was accepted fandom practice, so what the hell, let's do it. 
> 
> This is part of what resulted. It is part of three separate story trees, belonging to each of the characters mentioned in the tags - Abyssus, who was prophesied to bring ruin to the Dynasty, not that anyone realised said prophecies were talking about her at the time; Rhodian, the fourth to carry the Matrix and a byword for pain and suffering right up to present times; and his aunt Andromeda the Warrior, the protector of the small. The story goes that when Genesis Prime died, the successor the Matrix chose was a mech barely out of childhood. The Elder Council therefore decided to place an older, experienced mech at his side for the first few vorns of his reign, while he found his feet. The mech they chose was Abyssus - who, in pursuit of her own ideas of how to rule, terrorised the young Prime into silence while she steadily usurped all his powers. 
> 
> However, all children must grow up. Sometime around the seventh vorn he spent under her thrall, Rhodian began to push back...
> 
> * * *

***

Rhodian Prime is barely in his primal suite for half a breem before the crashing sound of running feet draws to a crescendo outside his doors. 

They're not locked, though he dearly wishes they were. 

There's a heavy pause. Shadows move on the filigreed walls, pale electrum glimmering in the afternoon sun. The doors open, not in the sudden slam he'd expected but a slow, cultured bow inwards. 

His bonded mate stands on the other side, a dark sentinel at the threshold. Her armor is tipped with lengthy spines, her Shifter's frame wearing the extra mass of the largest of warbuilds. Her forearms are bound in heavy gauntlets, her optics frosted and blazing. The bond between them crackles with vivid rage - her rage, the fearless wrath of a tyrant denied her will. 

Answering fear makes him tremble, his tension cables taut and humming with stress. The energon in his tank is suddenly heavy and cloying. He licks his lips, clasping his hands against his abdominal plates. He is Prime, but she is Supreme; she overpowers him in both politic and body. She steps across the threshold, a deliberate invasion. Her pale optics are trained on him like a sniper’s scope, her lips parted in what he recognises as arousal. His spark lurches in fright, but the sight of her strong shoulders and the deceptively sweet taste of her field are enough to send a jolt of heat through his systems. 

“Oh, my sweet,” she sighs, her voice a musical rumble. It makes him want to step back, run away though he knows she will catch him – it makes him wet inside. “You have been bad today, you truly have.”

“I have not.” The words slip out before he’s ready, and he can only shake his helm in wordless terror at the wicked burn they ignite in her optics. Abyssus’ shell cracks for a moment; her form flickers, the spines on her back lengthening. He will hurt tonight; he knows it in his spark. 

But it is worth it, this charter. He wishes Andromeda godspeed, and wonders if the protection she swears to extend to all under its purvey would extend to him. “This is the best thing for Cybertron. I have done nothing but my duty as Prime.” 

“I disagree,” Abyssus says, softly. She steps closer, and he retreats, keeping one optic on her pedes to judge how close she can get before he will be within grabbing distance. “You have made a ruin of all my hard work. Seven vorns of planning, gone to waste with one word.” There is a frozen moment where she falls silent, her field giving away nothing of her thoughts. Rhodian tenses, ready to flee [where to?]. She tilts her helm to the side, her antlers casting cruel shadows onto her face, and smiles. “I have sacrificed much to shape Cybertron into the powerful nation we currently enjoy, and I will not permit anything – or anyone – to get in my way. You, I believe, require _punishment_.”

The sinister cast of her field startles a shudder from him. Distracted, he offlines his optics for a millisecond – and she strikes. A servo wraps around his upper arm and he has just enough time to gasp at the crushing strength before the world whirls around him and his shoulder stabs red warnings into his HUD as she tosses him to the floor. The automatic reaction is to push himself up, but before he gets halfway there is a pede against his belly. She flips him onto his back with a deft flick of her ankle and smiles down at him.

“Out of respect for your status as the carrier of my children, I feel I must accord you some lenience,” she says. Rhodian doesn’t understand how she can be so flippant about it, as if she had planted those precious sparks within him during consensual intercourse rather than the rape it was. He can’t hold back a sob as the bond linking them floods with her sick desire, simultaneously both repulsing and arousing him. 

Abyssus smirks. It’s a flash of her true nature, a crack in the imposing skin she wears. Her pede presses down on the joint between his hip and thigh, forcing his leg to slide out, away from his chassis. She reaches for him, and there are claws on her servos, claws he knows she intends to _use._

“Primus,” he whimpers, a desperate prayer to the sleeping god, but one he knows won’t be answered.

Then Abyssus’ hands are on him, and the whimper crests into a desperate cry as she strokes up the insides of his thighs, her touch awakening his base carrier protocols. His interface net flares to life, warmth and wetness blossoming at the place where his body opens up underneath his armor. [He’s heard any number of words for it, all from Abyssus, words that strike him deep, draw wounds across his spark as deep as any her mass inside him causes. He refuses to refer to himself in any terms she approves of.] 

She laughs as she draws his legs apart, lifting them so she can plant a kiss to the cables behind his knee. He moans, lightning branching through his systems at the touch. Her satisfaction bleeds through the bond, making him sick to the depths of his spark. Still, he cannot stop himself from arching, lifting himself into her touch.

He’s never known any touch but hers, and yet the memories in the Matrix tell him that everything she does to him is wrong. He remembers, as Prima, joining with Megatronus in joyful discovery, days old and already sure that he is in love with the being who moves within him, greeting every burst of energy between them with the thrill of the newly-sparked. He remembers Primon, and the roar of massive jet engines beneath his hands, the vivid strength of the mech’s spark as he welcomes it into his own, coming together with a flash of mutual understanding – never pain. He remembers Genesis, Basilea, sharing herself with her court to demonstrate the depth of her devotion to each and every mech under her purview, the love for her world which overflowed her spark each time.

It hurts him every time Abyssus comes into him, agony so intense he wonders how he survives. It’s no wonder, of all the dozens of times she’s kindled him, he’s only seen seven of his infinitely fragile creations survive to birth. 

There’s a soft answering moan from her, ghostly optics drifting closed as she clutches his hips and pulls him flush against her plating. She’s warm, her frame thrumming with aroused charge. Her field thrashes, bearing down on him, and he knows he could resist it but it’s not worth the pain it would earn him. She sinks barbed pulses into him, brushing over his neural net with shortwave caresses that put his own field on edge. The discomfort sharpens the sensation her hands draw from his thighs. She moans again, her body bowing forward over him, her hips grinding in a sensual slow circle against the plating between his legs. The pressure is both wonderful and terrible, his protoform throbbing with raw electricity underneath it.

Her claws skitter over his belly, down between his legs. The tips dig into his central seam, and he folds back his panelling before she can tear him open, baring his array to her predatory gaze. She sits back, drinks in the sight, her optics forever assessing. He chokes back a groan of despair, servos pushing weakly at her knees. 

Sometimes she rates him, voicing a constant monologue on how his Prime’s body compares to the other mechs she’s had as she rapes him. Sometimes she praises him, compliments the way his body reacts as she pushes herself into him, the heat and wetness of him, the way he tastes of starfire and lightning when she licks their mingled fluids from his channel. 

On still other occasions her words turn sharp and humiliating, calling him worthless, weak, slut and whore. She tells him he deserves it, that she is doing him a favour by taking him, because he’s a dirty sinner unworthy of the Matrix and no other mech will ever want him, no matter how pretty his frame may be. She tells him he should kill himself, then offers to help. She chokes him when he refuses, blocking his vents until the heat makes him burn inside.

This time, she takes her claws to his external array, brushing them through the mess trickling from his depths. He shudders and exvents hard, holding himself still through titanic force of will. His protomass draws tight and shivers, connector filaments extending under the pass of her hand. The tip of his spike peeks from its housing, slick with his body’s lubricant. Abyssus smiles down at him, and hooks her arms around the backs of his knees and thighs, spreading him open – and lifting him up.

Her mouth at his channel is not entirely unexpected, the flickering press of her glossa working into him a taste of pleasure he’s learned to take at face value. She likes to taste him, will happily spend joors with her helm between his legs, teasing him over the edge time after time until the pleasure becomes torture and he claws at her head and begs for mercy. It’s yet another tool to her; he’s lost count of the times she’s held him on the edge of completion and refused to let him go over until he caved to her demands. 

It’s good though, a pleasure he’s so often denied. He cries out as she suckles on the corded rim of his channel, her lips soft against the protective metalmesh folds around it. Liquid pleasure pools low in his chassis, heat lightning pulsing in his spark. He wishes – _Primus_ , he wishes he had the willpower to fight, because even losing that battle would be less of a betrayal of self than this meek acceptance. She’s _using_ him, frame and spark and status.

And it hurts, it hurts so much.

He finds his back arching, his legs wrapping around her shoulders, his hips moving, grinding himself up against her mouth. He feels her smile against him, feels her glossa flicker out between her lips a couple of times before she draws away. He can’t hold back a bereft moan, and she laughs, clear and honest. 

“You need me, Rhodian,” she says, gathering him in her arms and tipping him upright. “You’d never survive without me, would you.” 

Disoriented, he clutches her broad shoulders for support, his thighs tightening automatically around her waist. She stands up effortlessly, and it’s only then that he realises her array is open. The tip of her spike rubs against his aft as she carries him through his quarters, into the still-dark berthroom.

He hates his berth. It’s where she first raped him, the day after he’d Ascended to the Matrix. He’d been barely three vorns old, and she his Regent, charged to protect him from the Primacy’s enemies. The irony of that is not lost on him, but he avoids thinking about it too much – the memories are too painful.

Abyssus sets him down on the berth with exaggerated care, gathering his wrists in one hand and pushing him over backwards, pinning his servos to the berth above his head. Her spike scrapes along his thigh, transfluid welling in a thin ribbon from the tip. Her optics glow near-white in the gloom, points of light reflecting off their armour. She settles on top of him, her weight pressing him down into the berth. Her servo gropes between them, rubbing the filament housing and viciously pinching the tip of his emerging spike. Rhodian yelps, fire lancing through his neural net. Her fingers guide her to his channel, and he feels the smooth, narrow tip of her slide into his body.

He offlines his optics, not wanting to watch her any longer. Her mass inside him is hot, her spike rigid and unforgiving. Her connectors slide into his ports, her claspers locking them together. She kisses him until he feels like he’s going to purge, her lips and glossa still thick with the taste of his lubricant. His channel ripples around her, resizing to her girth. 

He knows what comes next, and he’ll never be ready for it, even if he lives another hundred vorns under her sway. Her servos slide up the length of his frame to his chest plates, the tips of her digits tapping at his central seam. She doesn’t have to say a thing; Rhodian knows what she means from bitter experience.

 _Primus protect me,_ he prays silently, and obeys. The light of his spark – blue-white, almost like her optics – cuts through the darkness. Abyssus’ chest and face glow with it.

“There, my sweet,” she whispers, kissing his chevron. “You are so beautiful, do you know? I want to tie you to the berth and keep you spread out like this forever.”

Rhodian tries to turn his face to the side, but she catches his chin and forces him back. Her mouth presses against his, sensual kisses laid upon his lips. He meets her optics, and sees the light of victory in them. 

Her hips roll against his, her claspers dragging at his protoform. She disengages the locks on her chestplates and slides them apart, her spark array coming to the front. The light is red – and Rhodian’s is brighter, much brighter. He ought to be able to control her spark in a merge, but like her Shifter’s frame it is hard to pin down. And where the pain debilitates him, it only seems to make her stronger still.

She lowers herself down onto him, and their mechanisms lock their frames together. Rhodian loses the last scrap of his self-control as their outer coronae meet and begin the merge, and pain unlike anything else he’s ever felt washes in a tsunami through his neural net.

It's drowning, melting alive, being crushed under the gravity at the heart of a star. There is no way to guard against it, no way to numb the pain. He feels himself scream, an incoherent wail drawn from deep within his vocal systems, shot through with static and cracking around the edges. Molten glass weaves a web through his core, tracing each one of his scars and cracking him open along his weakest lines. His optics short out, his vents stutter under the frantic load. The bond between them opens as wide as it can ever go, and he feels her victory and satisfaction cleave him open to the core.

Energy gathers deep inside him and explodes outwards, obliterating all in its path. The last thing he feels before he falls out of existence is the tiny light of a newspark shining out from behind his pain.

***


End file.
